


her distant memory

by ninemoons42



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Dogs, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Mother-Son Relationship, Pets, Tumblr: jaegercon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 20:11:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck Hansen is still in mourning, even with an utterly fearless and loyal companion at his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	her distant memory

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [starshipenterpine](http://starshipenterpine.tumblr.com) for the Jaegercon 2013 Gift Exchange.

There is a warmth on his foot that is heavy and familiar and flatulent, and Chuck Hansen rolls his eyes and tries to extricate himself from that dead weight, and succeeds only in putting that weight on both feet.

He squirms and he kicks out, determinedly, and several minutes later there’s a groaning rolling rumble of a snore, unexpected wet touch to the sole of his foot - but now his feet are free, and he can sit up and fling the thin blankets away and glare, though half-heartedly.

Max is sprawled over the foot of the bed, lying on his back, like some weird pale thing that’s been dug up from some kind of mutant breeding ground. Maybe a canine equivalent of the Breach. He certainly looks like some kind of monstrosity of a dog, with his tongue lolling out as it does now. Half his snout is in a wet patch of his own drool.

As Chuck watches, Max whuffles and snorts and paws at the air, moving like he’s walking although he won’t be going anywhere. A thick bubbling snort of a wheeze comes out of Max’s mouth, and then he farts, loudly.

“Bloody smelly idiot,” Chuck says, the only kind of fond he can make himself be, and he waves his hand in front of his nose to dispel the fumes. “Stinky stray mutt. Oi, wake up.” He prods Max in the side, not too hard, but enough to start the big lump moving. “Wake up wake up wake up.”

Max deigns to open one eye.

Chuck sticks his tongue out at him. “Breakfast, Max,” he says, and he rolls his eyes when the word apparently gets through to the dog, because Max sighs and scrabbles around, fighting for purchase on the many-times-clawed, many-times-mended sheets until he’s finally in a position that resembles upright.

Sort of. Chuck has to squint at him, and Max squints back, tail moving slowly back and forth.

“Good morning, you fat lump,” Chuck says, and he moves down the bed to lean down towards Max, and Max obliges him by proceeding to clean his face with his tongue. He gets a hand into the scruff of Max’s neck and shakes him, not too hard, and follows that up with a determined round of ear scratching that makes Max groan again, as well as fart again.

“Ugh! Get off my bed,” Chuck growls. He gets his arms around Max and moves him from the sheets to the floor. 

Max sits down once he’s on the floor, and he looks back over his shoulder at Chuck, half reproachful, half resigned.

“Still a grumpy shit in the mornings,” Chuck says, shaking his head as he pulls on his socks and boots. His dog tags jingle with every movement. “Eight years you’ve been like this at the beginning of the day. Honestly, what was I thinking, expecting you to change. Come on, then, I know what’ll make you feel better. Time for a walk. Then food. Not the other way around.”

For all his reluctance in waking up, though, Max pulls eagerly on his leash once they’re out of the Ranger quarters, once they’re pacing quickly through the corridors of the Shatterdome. There are a few greetings; there are a few smiles. Mostly, Chuck barrels on ahead. He’s not looking for familiar faces. He doesn’t need any comrades. Just Max and him.

Well, and maybe Striker Eureka. Just maybe. He leads the dog to the vast space of the Jaeger hangar, with its massive bays. Three gigantic humanoid shapes of steel and armor and circuitry and nuclear power. He takes a deep breath and there is ozone on the air. The welding work never seems to be done.

Max sniffs and noses enthusiastically around one of Striker Eureka’s massive feet while Chuck looks over her maintenance records. They’ve finally gotten around to the wear in the elbow joints; good, perhaps it’ll be easier to punch out the next kaiju. 

“Mister Hansen,” a voice says behind him, and he turns around. 

Small slight woman, dark clothes. Fire in her eyes that should be at odds with the quiet voice that is still as hard as rocks. Chuck feels himself stand a little straighter, even though that means he only towers over her even more. 

She stares so fiercely that he feels irrationally small, and so he answers as brashly as he can: “Good morning, Mori.”

“You are well? Your injury has healed?” she asks.

He shrugs.

There is a stern stiffness in her mouth as she squints at him - until she starts and looks down.

Max is on his belly next to her feet, and he’s got the cuffs of her trousers in his mouth. Small dark patch, spreading.

Mori blinks, and then she’s on her knees, and she looks utterly serious even as she passes her hands from the top of Max’s head to about halfway down his back, again and again.

Max sighs and lays his head on her knee and keeps drooling on her.

Chuck rolls his eyes and mouths _Traitor_ at the dog.

He almost expects Mori to wince in distaste at her trousers once she’s on her feet and moving away, but all she does is smile and wave at Max, and Chuck doesn’t know enough Japanese to catch what she says to the dog.

He makes Max finish the round of the perimeter, dodging techs and at least two of the pilots of Crimson Typhoon as they go, and then it’s time to head on to the mess hall.

There’s a large screen on one wall that shows weather reports, the news, time all over the world, and then another set of numbers pops up and Chuck feels every nerve in his body go numb. 

2 September 2024.

He stares blankly at the tray he’s handed: brown stuff next to white, and moves to a table without really engaging his mind. He’s familiar with everything: mostly, it’s food that doesn’t taste like much. The supply run must be late again. It’s been a while since he’s eaten something that even tastes remotely fresh, like bread that’s still warm from the oven. It’s been a long time since anyone here ate potatoes that didn’t come out of a box.

He puts the bowl on his tray down on the floor and he’s mostly content to watch as Max wades into the food.

“At least he is enthusiastic,” someone says behind him, and he turns around partway.

The roots of Sasha Kaidonovskaya’s hair are showing, deep black against her usual bleached bouffant, and she looks mildly sympathetic, which is just about as much emotion as Chuck has ever seen her show - at least when she’s not in Cherno Alpha. She is a steady presence in the Shatterdome, a focus of silence, as people tend to go quiet when she passes by. 

“He doesn’t care what his food looks like,” Chuck mutters, eventually. He’s never comfortable in her presence. She has no problems looking him in the eyes. He knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of one of her powerful punches. 

He also knows what it’s like to be glared at by her mountain-brick wall-giant of a husband, who steps up to her side, carrying two trays of food.

Chuck turns back to the table, reluctantly, and pushes his food around, and doesn’t look up even when his father sits down opposite him. He shakes his head at the offer of a mug of coffee. “No thanks.”

“It’s actual coffee.”

“No.”

Chuck puts his feet down flat on the floor. He’s waiting for - something. An explosion, a kind word, a stern one.

Hercules Hansen sighs and looks away and begins the mechanical process of eating: fork in hand, down and up, from tray to mouth.

Chuck bolts from the table as soon as he’s reasonably finished that Max is done eating. No hunger pangs for him. He’s too used to the hollowness that digs itself deeper inside his heart with every passing day.

Back to the room. He slams the door behind him, just barely misses tripping over the dog when he falls down onto the bed as though his strings have been cut.

It’s been ten years since Scissure.

Chuck rolls over onto his back.

Sometimes he will catch a glimpse of _her_ in the Drift and most of the time he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t know how to feel about that, doesn’t know how he’s survived between those few and far memories. All he has are the moments when the thirst for revenge is the fuel for his need to fight and kill kaiju.

He should have been teaching Max to do tricks for her. She’d liked lingering in pet stores with him, and she’d been nothing but encouraging when he talked about names for the dog that they wanted to rescue from some shelter or another. She’d grinned along with him when they spotted a dog on the way to or from the shops. The idea of a dog for the two of them to care for had been the only thing that made her smile on the days when she was sad.

Now he has to fight to remember her face. Now it feels strange when he tries to think about her.

“I miss my mother,” he says, and his mouth shapes the last word awkwardly.

Max groans and sits down next to the bed, and Chuck picks him up and holds the sheer bulk of him close, as best as he can.

“You should have been drooling on her feet,” he mutters into Max’s warmth. He’s choking around the words and he doesn’t know why. “You should have been chewing on her clothes. You should be fetching things for her. Maybe her newspapers, I don’t know. You should be guarding her instead of being stuck here. 

“She wanted a dog that she could call _Max_. Why didn’t that happen,” he asks, devoid of any inflection whatsoever.

Max whimpers, licks his face, and Chuck doesn’t feel it.

A sound that might have been a sob tears itself out of Chuck’s throat.


End file.
